


sera ad Ecclesia

by ghostofgatsby



Series: with a heart unsatisfied [1]
Category: The Yogscast
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Churches & Cathedrals, Collars, Donuts, Fictional Religion & Theology, Having Faith, M/M, Magic, Magic-Users, Multi, Pythagoreanism, Queer Catholics, Religion, Religion as Magic, Roman Catholicism, University
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-21
Updated: 2017-01-21
Packaged: 2018-09-18 07:16:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9373988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostofgatsby/pseuds/ghostofgatsby
Summary: "Smith...Smith, your phone's buzzing." Trott pushes on his shoulder, shaking him lightly awake.Smith groans into the pillow."Smith, it's 7:30," Trott whines."What?" Smith pushes himself up on an arm, snatching his buzzing phone from off the side table. "Oh,fuck!"Ross snuffles in his sleep and Trott grumbles in half-awake protest as Smith jostles them both in his attempt to shove his way out of bed. "Fuck!" he hisses again, scrambling from their twice-worn laundry pile on the floor in search of nice clothes that look halfway decent. "Fuck, I'm late for church!"





	

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is sort of a weird AU that was inspired by Garrote by downjune, a Hockey RPF fic/series where they influenced magic into Catholic beliefs and rituals in a real-world universe. Magical realism with Catholic witches, basically. (It's pretty cool, so I defs recommend if it sounds like your jam.)  
> Whereas downjune's work focuses more on curses, sex magic, magical bonds, prophets and mind-reading magic-infused rosaries...I wanted to expand on the different kinds of magic that could be possible, and really lean in on the perspectives of a character who has big beliefs. (Catholic + magic + witchery is really the only commonality between their work and this). I wanted to explore ideas about _how_ beliefs influence magic and what other magics are like- not just religion based- so I've created other "magic types," too.  
>  It's essentially just a self-indulgent idea to make Smith Catholic, but. Enjoy?
> 
> oh, and, here's some background info:  
> Smith's a theology professor at the nearby university they all graduated from, Trott's a linguist/mythologist and librarian/researcher at the same place, and Ross is a mathematician/numerologist/statistician who runs data freelance for private companies and works from their home-office apartment. Trott and Ross are both atheists, and Smith is Catholic. Each of their magic types is different, but they have similarities, too. Smith's magic is connected to his faith (mainly prayer), Ross' is connected to Pythagoreanism (mainly counting/arranging things), and Trott's is related to languages, poetry, and Ovid (mainly writing and then burning stuff). The Midwest US is where this all takes place.  
> Got any questions? Hit me up in the comments ;P!
> 
> cw: Religion, Collars, sexual innuendos  
> If I need to tag something else, let me know.

"Smith...Smith, your phone's buzzing." Trott pushes on his shoulder, shaking him lightly awake.

Smith groans into the pillow. "Five more minutes," he mumbles. He's far too cozy with his arms around Trott, and Ross curled up behind him, his naked front warm against Smith’s back.

"Smith, it's 7:30," Trott whines.

"What?" Smith pushes himself up on an arm, reaching across Trott and snatching his buzzing phone from off the side table. "Oh, _fuck!_ "

Ross snuffles in his sleep and Trott grumbles in half-awake protest as Smith jostles them both in his attempt to shove his way out of bed. "Fuck!" he hisses again, scrambling from their twice-worn laundry pile on the floor in search of nice clothes that look halfway decent.

Trott shushes his cursing. “Smith, hush, the sun isn’t even up…” He pulls the covers over his head and burrows into the spot in the bed Smith left empty.

"Sorry, sorry. Fuck, I'm late for church!" Smith grabs his wallet, keys, and rosary off the bedside table and yanks his dress pants up with one hand. If his faculty supervisor wasn't so firm on going to mass at seven thirty on Sundays, Smith could sleep in another two hours. He finishes getting dressed and yanks a brush through his hair so at least he doesn’t _look_ like he’s just woken up. "See you when I get home," he whispers on his way out the door, still cursing quietly.

 

Snow crunches and crackles under Smith’s footfalls as he runs across campus in the darkness of the morning. He’s panting by the time he reaches the basilica, breath misting in the cold January air. The bells have long stopped tolling to signify the beginning of mass- he’s very, _very_ late. He slowly climbs the steps, catching his breath and pulling his hat off his head. The door creaks open as he slips inside.

The voices of the congregation surround him immediately, echoing up into the arches in the ceiling above. The magic in the words draws him inside, a welcoming presence, unifying them all in feelings of community and belonging. Warmth banishes cold from his hands and face.

Smith internally grimaces at the dirty looks the older patrons send him for being late. He dips the tips of his fingers into the basin of holy water near the door and makes the sign of the cross. The priest at the altar is already finishing Gloria in Excelsis, and calling for a moment of silence in prayer.

Smith can feel his face burning up as he breaks that silence, shoes squeaking and clip-clopping down the aisle to where his faculty supervisor is sitting near the front. Though he's never been able to shake the embarrassment of being late to mass, the gold and blue decor of the church and the soft amber glow of the candles never fails to ease his mind and put his worries at peace.

Catholic magic always feels like heat without flame; hope without reason. There are charms in the eaves, carved ornately into the marble pillars, and painted into the murals on the vaulted ceiling. The charms roar and crackle with magical power and strength as he walks past. Smith feels the magic settle him, connecting with his own that lies somewhere between his chest and stomach, intangible, but distinguished. The organ music begins flowing through the pipes above the door he just entered through, transitioning the mass from the introductory rites to the Liturgy of the Word.

Smith finds Reverend Bradley and genuflects at the end of the pew before he sits down, pulling a missal from the back of the seat in front of them to read along with.

The Rev clears his throat quietly and gives him the side-eye behind his gold, wire-rimmed glasses. Smith mouths an apology and focuses in on the lector at the altar as she presents a reading from the Book of Isaiah.

 

Smith tiptoes into the apartment later that morning, knowing it’s probably still too early for his partners to be awake. Sunlight twinkles through the open living room curtains, momentarily blinding him in confusion. Smith watches the dust float in the air as he takes off his shoes, juggling a box of donuts in his hands.

“Morning,” Trott greets him, sitting at the nearby kitchen island with a cup coffee. He lays down the book he’d been reading to rub his eyes. “Though maybe I should have said that to you earlier. There’s coffee if you want it.” He waves a hand behind him at the coffee pot steaming on the counter.

Smith winces and walks around the island and over to him. “Sorry for waking you.”

Trott shrugs. The blanket around his shoulders slips off momentarily and he pulls it back around. “Sunday should be a day of rest.”

“Tell that to the Rev,” Smith snorts. He kisses Trott’s head and slides the thin cardboard box he’d been carrying onto the table. “Here, I brought donuts to make up for it.” Donuts were pretty much required after mass. Smith had been starving by the time it was over with, and then he had to talk with his faculty supervisor for another half hour. He couldn’t resist scarfing down one of the freshly glazed cinnamon buns in the car during the drive back to the apartment.

Trott smiles and reaches for the box. “North Corner? That’ll make Ross happy.” He slides his finger under the edge of the windowed lid to break the sticker seal, and lifts it off.

Smith takes a mug out of the cabinet and pours himself a cup of coffee. “I figured he could use something sweet.” Despite Ross’ love for desserts, he didn’t buy them often. He was too wrapped up in his freelance statistician work to get out much.

“Twat isn’t even up yet,” Trott grumbles, leaning over the kitchen island to carefully select a donut from the box.

“No? He’s been up late working on data a lot recently. Did he ever finish that last project for that sales rep?”

Trott shakes his head and takes a bite out of a chocolate-ganache-topped cruller.

Smith blows on his coffee a little to cool it. “Huh. Well, if he’s not up yet that just means more donuts for us.” He grins.

“Did you get good numbers for these? The donuts?” Trott asks.

“Numbers? Oh. Pythagorean shit, you mean. I think? It’s just a dozen. Or, _was_.” Smith sits down on a barstool on the other side of Trott and takes another donut from the box. A yum yum, this time- a glazed, twisted donut with sweet and crunchy yellow bits sprinkled on top.

Trott chuckles and licks chocolate ganache off his thumb. “You know the first thing he’ll do is count them.”

“Yeah, probably.” Smith tries to remember to finish chewing before talking. He gestures with the donut in his hand. “This is number ten. That’s symbolism for what? Evenness?”

“Order and open-mindedness. _Four_ is evenness and balance.”

“Right. Because it’s _real_ fuckin’ easy to remember the differences.” Smith rolls his eyes and takes another large bite of his donut.

Trott smiles. “He’s got tricks to remember what’s what. Even with all that math in his head. Can’t be that hard.”

“Ross is the numerologist, not me. All number are good numbers, anyway, so I don’t see why it matters.”

“Says the guy with the religion that hates the number six.”

“It’s superstition of evil, fuck off,” Smith states. He shoves the rest of the donut in his mouth to signify the end of the conversation. If he’s too busy eating, they can’t talk about the meanings of numbers in their different branches of magic.

But of course, this doesn’t work with Trott. “Ten is both good and bad in biblical theology, if you think about it. Ten commandments. Ten plagues. Ten lost tribes of Israel. Ten primal elements.”

Smith swallows his half-chewed donut quickly and clears his throat. “Yeah, yeah, I get it. Don’t talk theology at me, you twat; you’re just a mythologist.”

Trott smirks. “All religion is myth, sunshine. And I’m also a linguist.”

Smith groans. “We’re not getting into this. There’s not enough alcohol in my coffee for that discussion.” He takes a drink and narrows his eyes at Trott over the rim of the mug.

Luckily, Ross shuffles down the hallway before Trott can further his argument.

“Good morning,” Ross mutters, running a hand through his bed-mussed hair and yawning, “Is there coffee?” He looks like he needs it, dressed in only a pair of boxer briefs, and with bags under his eyes.

“Yeah, on the-”

Smith interrupts Trott mid-sentence. “Quick, Ross- is ten a good number? In your Pythagorean shit?”

Ross raises an eyebrow and comes closer. “As part of a tetractys, yeah. It’s one of the most important numerical values in Pythagoreanism.” He peers down at the kitchen island and straightens out his chain-link infinity collar from where it had twisted around his neck overnight. The metal gleams in the morning sun.

“Hah! Fuck you, Trott!” Smith exclaims. “Eat shit!”

“What? I didn’t even- it’s just _opinion_ , Smith, not a fucking contest over who’s more correct!”

Smith sticks his tongue out at Trott and finishes his coffee.

Ross smiles, ignoring their lighthearted bickering and curiously inspecting in the box on the kitchen island. “Donuts! Fuck yes.” He selects a chocolate-covered long john and takes a large bite, chewing happily.

Smith hops off his barstool to refill his mug of coffee. “‘Course you pick the cream-filled one, you dirty fucker,” he teases Ross. He hip checks him on his way over to the coffee pot.

Ross flips him off with his free hand and licks his lips. “I know you’re jealous of my phallic donut, Smith. You just want all that delicious cream filling for yourself.”

“Oooh, filthy!” Smith says through his teeth. “I’ll show you ‘cream-filled’, ya wanker!”

Trott shakes his head at the two of them and goes back to reading his book.

**Author's Note:**

> "sera ad Ecclesia" or, “too late to church” in Latin  
> bless Google translate for making my titles sound fancy. eeeeeven though that's probably an incorrect translation.
> 
> reblog: https://ghostofgatsby13.wordpress.com/2017/01/21/sera-ad-ecclesia-ghostofgatsby
> 
> Ross' collar: https://www.etsy.com/listing/164253086/bdsm-day-collar-316l-high-quality?ref=shop_home_active_7


End file.
